“Things are right. Aren’t they?”
“No. You walked out on me years ago. Then you came back and acted as if we’d never been anything to each other. Just because we’ve been through an ordeal together doesn’t mean you can suddenly assume that everything’s the way it used to be.”
She was right, of course. After a moment he asked, “So what d’you want me to do?”
“Take it slowly. Let us get to know each other again, before we contemplate running off together. You owe me that.”
“Yeah, I do.” His eyes locked on hers, and he covered her hand with his. She didn’t pull away. “Us—it’s not impossible, is it? That we could get it back together?”
“No, it’s not impossible.”
“Then it’s possible.”
“I suppose.”
“Very possible,” he said, and twined his fingers through hers.
STEPH PACE
Steph decided to take the rest of the day off from the restaurant and try to get some sleep, but when she got home, she was afraid to lie down and close her eyes. The nightmares in which she was again trapped in the water bag with Eldon Whitesides’s corpse had been persistent and terrifying. Finally she made a mental review of her to-do list and decided to clean her closet. Soon clothing was strewn all over her bed.
This shirt had never looked right on her. These pants were completely out of date. And, my God, this dress . . . Why on earth had she kept such things so long?
But then there was the colorful woven top from Africa. It would look great on a warm beach somewhere. And this long dress, tailored but romantic. She could picture wearing it in a hill town in Italy.
Italy. That was the place she and Joseph had talked about most in the old days.
Maybe they’d talk about it again in the days to come. Talking about anything seemed possible now that she’d started to express her anger with him. She had no doubt that she’d vent at him many times again—twenty years of smoldering resentment couldn’t be expunged in one outburst—but at least she’d opened the channels of communication.
Maybe there was a future for them yet. . . .
Very possible.
She went to the living room, took down her atlas from the bookcase. Lugged it back to the bedroom, and pushed aside one of the piles of clothing. Then she curled up and opened it to the map of Italy.
She traced her finger over the map, spoke aloud names of places she’d only dreamed of: Roma, Firenze, Venezia, Napoli. Pictured vineyards, olive groves, villages that had changed little since ancient times. After a while she grew drowsy and pushed the book away, cradled her head in the crook of her elbow.
When sleep came, Steph’s nightmare did not return.
TIMOTHY MCNEAR
Timothy stood at the foot of the pier. Yellow crime-scene tapes fluttered in the stiff offshore wind. Investigators and technicians had come and gone all day yesterday, but now the mill was deserted. He turned and began walking toward the ruins of the guard shack, where he’d left his car.
His grandson and Gregory Erickson—who had been apprehended at a Calvert’s Landing motel, where he’d been holed up ever since he killed Eldon Whitesides—had been taken to the jail at Santa Carla and arraigned on attempted murder and murder charges respectively. Timothy had been questioned and released on his own recognizance; his lawyer was of the opinion that any potential charges would be dropped in exchange for his cooperation. Tomorrow his son Robert would arrive from Melbourne, and Timothy had agreed to meet his plane. He didn’t have an inkling of how that reunion would go, was not even sure he cared. Recent events had taught him that one’s past was best accepted and then left behind.
As he walked, he looked around at the devastation of his mill for the last time. Soon he would solicit bids on demolishing what was left and carting the wreckage away. And once that was done, he’d solicit more bids: for retrofitting the pier for sport fishing vessels, for landscaping, for a golf course and tennis courts. Over there, where the administration building had stood, would be the children’s playground. And perhaps, in belated honor of Caroline, he’d plant a botanical garden. In the spring, when the egrets and great blue herons were nesting along the Perdido, work would begin.
And that, old man, will be your legacy.
Cape Perdido Page 21
